


A Little Matter I Forgot To Mention (Remain Quietly Seated At All Times)

by reena_jenkins



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Angst, Bad Decisions, Carpooling, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Hitch-hikers, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I get into cars with strangers all the time, isn’t it obvious?”</p><p>Or, Pete is angry and talks a lot, Patrick is Resurrection Mary, and some of the best friendships start at one in the morning by the side of the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Matter I Forgot To Mention (Remain Quietly Seated At All Times)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paraka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraka/gifts).



 

The first time, it’s a lapse in judgement.  
  
It's one last gig with Arma in front of an audience that doesn't care at all, doesn’t care enough, cares too fucking much. One last spin round the stage that felt like scraping too much of his soul out with every scream into the mic, one last attempt to keep their sad little house from blowing in on itself. Too many words, not enough people listening, and Pete knows, he  _knows_ they're not gonna last much longer together, if it doesn't all end tonight.  
  
So their set finishes, and the guys start breaking everything down - and there's a metaphor right there, if he weren't too pissed to notice. Pete packs up his bass in the back of his shitty, beat-up car, and he's stewing in anger at everything in the world right now. There's a certain someone in particular who said she was coming to see  _him_ tonight, but when Pete scanned the crowded floor during their set, he caught her performing a tonsillectomy with her tongue on some nameless scene boy. She's gone by the time he's done packing, too.  
  
So, yeah, Pete's in a shitty mood that first night. And shitty moods bring out all the best of his self-destructive tendencies, ask any girlfriend he's ever broken up with, any teacher who's ever failed him, any therapist whose couch is no longer graced by his ass. He's driving angry, switching lanes without his turn on, pissing off everyone else who's trying to get out of the city and back to the 'burbs tonight, just to spread the misery. Pete's stopped at a traffic light on the outskirts of Chicago, fuming to himself and wishing the rest of his band to the goblins, when he sees a guy waiting in a bus shelter. And of course, everyone knows that you don't talk to strangers in the city (not unless you want your stereo stolen or your insides knifed or your dick sucked in the back room of a club), but Pete's riding enough of a  _screw everything in the goddamn world_ high right now that he leans across the passenger seat, rolls down the window, and shouts, "What bus are you waiting for?"  
  
And the guy - young looking, light hair under a dark cap, collar of his coat pulled up against the night - pops his head up, all  _you talkin' to me?_ in surprise.  
  
"No, really. What bus are you waiting for? 'Cause I think they stop running out of the city around one or so. You might be stuck waiting ’til the morning commuter bus at four."  
  
And the guy - kid, actually, can't be more than a few years younger than Pete himself, probably some frosh who got stranded in the city while the rest of his buddies headed back to campus - looks around a bit, like he's confused that Pete's talking to him. In front of the car, the light turns green, but Pete doesn't go. It's not like there's anyone else on the road right now, outskirts of urban decay and empty traffic lanes all around.  
  
"Glenview," comes the reply after a few seconds.  
  
"No shit! I'm heading out to Wilmette. You want a ride? It's gotta be better than waiting three hours in the dark by yourself."  
  
And the kid takes a second, looks like he's remembering every time his mother ever told him not to get into a car with strangers and weighing it against three hours of sobriety in the cold and the dark, and then walks up to Pete's passenger side door. Pete pops the lock, swings the door open, leans back into the driver's seat and grins. "Hey, I'm Pete. Pinky-swear I'm not an axe murderer."  
  
"Oh, yeah, of course. Because real axe murderers swear on their mother's grave, obviously," comes his reply. Ooooh, boy's got a mouth on him. Nice. Pete's feeling punchy with his mood right now, a verbal sparring partner is just what the drive home needs.  
  
"You gonna tell me your name? Or should I just call you Bus Stop Boy in my head, every time you talk?"  
  
The kid sighs, like hitching a ride with Pete is the most aggravating and soul-wearying thing he's ever put up with, and says, "Patrick."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Patrick. Patty. Nah, not Patty. Pat, Rick, Trick. Trick! I like it. So, Trick, what brings you all the way to this  _fine_ example of metropolitan public transportation, this lonely evening?"  
  
"Uh, I got… stranded. I was supposed to get a ride with my….friends, but…." and his voice trails off, like Trick isn't sure how to end his ever-so-exciting tale of Derring-do And Adventure in The Big City.  
  
"That sucks. People are dicks. Like, someone tells you she's  _so_ into your band, totally, thinks you guys sound great, she's definitely gonna come see you tonight, and when you look up she's sucking on some fucking stranger's neck like a vampire. People suck, seriously, Trick. They really, really, suck."  
  
"Uh. Can't say that's ever been an experience I've had. But, um, the light's green. It's been green for a while. Are you planning on driving any time soon?"  
  
Pete looks up, and yep, the green light beckons, and he pulls out of nonexistent traffic like a high-speed chase with fifteen cop cars on his heels. He grins, wide and not a little bit manic, because Pete's pissed at the world and everyone in it (except Trick, maybe, because it sounds like he might have had as shitty a night as Pete did). So Pete goes, foot heavy on the gas and the radio screaming along for the ride, out into the dark like out-riders for the cavalry of the Army of Hell, with his new friend (companion, accomplice, acquaintance, stranger) at his side.  
  
And it would have been great, would have been grand, one last fuck you to Chicago and all her dirty streets… if Trick hadn't leaned forward and changed the station.  
  
"What! What was that for?" Pete squawks, looks over at the passenger seat in indignation.  
  
"Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road!" Pete turns around, keeps his shoulders tense to share his upset. "Look, I know we just met, but really? Angry breakup music of the apocalypse much? Here, I think….." and he fiddles with the scanning button, "…this is better. I swear."  
  
And, huh. For a second, something with a heavy bass plays over the stereo's speakers. It's not what Pete would have chosen (what he chose, apparently, isn't good enough for the discerning musical tastes of his….what do you call a hitchhiker who wasn't actually looking for a ride? A hostage-hiker? Nah, too melodramatic. Whatever, Pete's station was too unrefined for Trick's delicate ears), but it's good. It's something to drive to, something to keep his blood pumping as he vacillates between the bad mood from before and his curiosity about the newest addition to the ride home tonight.  
  
But then, like the piece of crap, thirdhand, impound lot  _reject_ that is his car, the radio craps out. Again. This is, what, the third time this month? Dammit, he's thrown more money into maintaining this shitheap than it's worth, seriously. And it's not like Pete wants to spend the rest of the thirty-minute drive (this time of night, no traffic and no cops, Pete's not exactly obeying the speed limit) home listening to static, so he shuts the radio off and turns to Patrick.  
  
Every time Pete goes to engage, however, asks a get-to-know-you question of his passenger, he gets shut down. Seems like Stranded At The Bus Station ( _Damn, we need more drive-ins around here_ , Pete thinks to himself,  _When was the last time I even went to a drive-in?_ ) is the last song of the night for Patrick, because he turns the radio-static on every time Pete pries. And, yeah, as a subject change super-static isn't subtle, but eventually Pete can take a hint. Trick and all his tricky glory is not a viable topic of conversation tonight, so Pete reverts back to old habits and vents for the rest of the drive into Glenview.  
  
It's not hard to fill the silence in the car. Pete's got plenty to say and a void to fill, topped off with a captive audience to share every angry word with as he spews his mood all over the upholstery. The ride fills with Pete-Pete-Pete, and Patrick just looks at him and urges him on. Eventually, though, all things must come to an end ( _Was this a good thing?_ Pete wonders to himself. _I didn't get knifed by my not-exactly-a-hitch-hiker, so I guess it's not terrible…_ ), and Pete's vitriol slows to a trickle as he drives through the shopping district of Glenview.  
  
"Where to, Trick? I know Glenview alright, but I'm probably gonna need directions for anything past Burger King."  
  
"Oh." Patrick looks out his window, half-way jolts like he doesn't quite recognize the area, like he wasn't expecting to see a Shell station and a Starbucks and a dime-a-dozen nail salon out his windows, like he's been half-asleep this whole time and is just now shaking himself awake. "The gas station's fine."  
  
Pete pulls up to the pump, ogles the price board and how much cheaper it is for gas just a few towns over than it is at home, turns off the engine, and pops out to fill'er up. On the way, he opens the passenger door, bows over his arm like the old-fashioned gentleman he most certainly isn't, and bids adieu as Patrick shrugs his shoulders, jams his hands into his coat pockets, turns to go. He goes to pay the gas attendant, and when Pete turns back around, Patrick has vanished into the dark.  
  
When he turns the car back on, the radio works just fine.  


 

  
  
  
The second time, it's a fit of caprice.  
  
Pete's been dancing all night, hot and sweaty and trying to prove that she doesn't matter at all to him, fuck her sideways and her broken promises. He's having a good time, bodies and arms and hands and shoulders and sweat and glitter from the lights, one nameless face after another until he works up enough of a thirst to go for broke. There's no plan to bring someone home tonight, but it's not like Pete's ever been one to say no to a blowjob in the bathroom (exhibitionism - he has a kink). So when he turns around for a new partner, and catches a flash of light hair by the bar, Pete doesn't question why he makes his way over through the crowd.  
  
"Trick!" Pete yells over the pounding bass, letting the crush of bodies on the floor shove him closer to the bar. He waves, and Patrick looks up with what might be a smile on his face - it's too dark to tell, in the corner where he's standing. It looks like Patrick's waiting on the bartender, might have been waiting for a long time judging by the crowd. Maybe the bartender doesn't even see him waving for a beer, considering the fact that the guy in charge of selling the alcohol seems sufficiently distracted from his duties in the customer service industry by the rack attached to some brittle-bottle-blonde in a tank top and not much else. Pete knows hair dye, he's had a few experimental shades not found in nature of his own, okay, and whatever stylist told her to use peroxide bleach straight from the bottle was doing it so very wrong.  
  
So he gestures over the crowd towards the coat check, and Patrick must get the memo because now they're letting the seething bodies all around direct them to the door. And it's spur of the moment, because Pete hasn't been able to get to the bar, either, so he hasn't had a shot since arriving at the club hours ago, that he says, "So, you want me to give you a ride home, carpool buddy?"  
  
Patrick tilts his head, like he's pondering a question of deep import and considering his response with greatest dignity, or maybe like he's measuring the sound of Pete's voice for another half-hour against having extra quarters not spent on bus fare to use for laundry next week. He's wearing the same hat as the last time Pete saw him, something dark with a brim that might be vintage or might be dumpster-diving chic (Pete's own style choices borrow heavily from the hoodies and Chucks and eyeliner genre, but who's he to mock where Patrick finds his fashion?), and it looks almost antique when paired up with the magnificent sideburns Trick's rocking. Pete's jealous - his attempts to grow badass facial hair always end in mockery and a razorblade ( _Note to self_ , Pete thinks, _hang onto the line 'mockery and a razorblade' for future lyrical endeavors_ ).  
  
Pete fidgets, waiting for Patrick to decide, and starts walking when he doesn't say anything. Patrick falls into step with Pete at a comfortable distance, though, so he must be coming along for the ride after all. They head to the side street where Pete parked in companionable silence, interspersed with Pete gesturing to a club hopper who's caught his eye, or a cloud formation that obscures the moon. The night is crisp, and Pete's glad for his hoodie as they walk through the chill air, body temperature dropping and arms starting to shiver the further away they get from the club's overheated press of bodies on all sides.  
  
They get to Pete's car eventually, and Patrick stands by the passenger door with a look on his face like _Well? Aren't you going to get that for me?_ Pete plays along like he did dropping Trick off last time, full bow and swooping arms as he holds the door open for Patrick's glorious personage. Of course the radio refuses to play anything more than scratchy static again, because that's just Pete's luck, and when he goes to turn up the heat to chase away the car's cold atmosphere, all that comes through the vents is a blast of chilled air and a groan from the compressor.  
  
"So," Pete says, over the wheeze of his car as it fails to get any warmer, "Why'd you get into a car with a stranger for the second time?"  
  
He's grinning a little, lets Trick know it's not a spiteful jab, and mostly he's just curious about the mindset of someone who presumably  _isn't_ driven to action without thought as often as Pete is. At least, Patrick doesn't look like that kind of guy; he seems more deliberate than that, more practical than Pete's flight of fancy.  
  
“I get into cars with strangers all the time, isn’t it obvious?” Pete hears Patrick reply as he pulls away from the curb and into sparse late-night traffic, and it’s followed up with the most sarcastic eye roll he’s ever witnessed. True, Pete’s not actually looking at Trick as it happens, instead witnessing said eye roll through the rearview mirror, which probably negates the effects somewhat. From what he saw just now, Trick is a world-class eye roller. Also, not unwilling to engage in verbal fistfights.  
  
It’s beyond impressive on the one hand - technically, they’ve only known each other for an hour or so, and even Pete likes to give a little more warm-up time than that before breaking out the champagne and vinegar on unsuspecting conversationalists - but also strangely hurtful. For reasons Pete’s not willing to examine at this juncture, Patrick’s sarcasm seems more  _defense against bullies_ than _joshing with my buddy_ right now.  
  
“Jeeze, I was just asking,” Pete shoots back, not looking at Patrick, focussing more intently than he needs to on the intersection ahead of them, “There’s no need to get your angry-sarcasm on at me.”  
  
Patrick sighs at that; shuffles in his seat, fidgets with a button on his coat, doesn’t say anything. Pete doesn’t speak up, either; directs his attention to the lack of cars in front of him, pokes at the radio again to no success, mulls over how quickly this attempt at conversation went downhill. Obviously, last time was a fluke - maybe Trick’d had more to drink that night, and it was just Dutch courage that made him such a match for Pete. Maybe Pete was too wrapped up in his own head at the time, to notice that the connection he felt only went one way. Maybe picking up strangers in clubs and from bus stands is a Really Bad Plan, and he’s going to get himself killed one day, just like his mother says.  
  
The silence stretches between them ( _Sullen and yellow-grey_ , Pete imagines, _like smog. Or bile_ ), emphasizing the rattle of his car’s failing heater, through three more traffic lights.  
  
It’s Patrick who finally breaks it.  
  
“You’re kind of cool, okay? I don’t mind hanging out with you,” Trick relents. The words come out begrudgingly, spit out like someone’s cast hooks down his throat and dragged them over his tongue.  
  
And Pete immediately brightens, despite Trick’s less than excited tone. He shifts in the driver’s seat, perks his head up like a puppy, slings a grin in Patrick’s direction.  
  
“Yeah? You think I’m cool? In an _oh-hey-we-should-be-bffs_ kind of way, or in an _I’m-morbidly-fascinated-by-your-weirdness_ one?”  
  
“The latter. Definitely the latter,” Patrick deadpans.  
  
Pete looks over the gearshift, sees the poker face Patrick’s wearing, and pouts in reply. When Trick just raises an eyebrow, he knows they’ve left the delicate bitter underbelly of the conversation behind them. He hams it up, mugging for Trick and breaking out the Ultrapout Of Poutiness (complete with Puppy Eyes Of Doom, registered trademark), angling for a smile.  
  
Patrick just shakes his head, and sighs, “You are a ridiculous person, I hope you know this.”  
  
Pete beams at him, can’t help it. “Oh, oh,” he says, “we are  _so_ going to be best friends, I hope  _you_ know you don’t get a choice in the matter. We have a  _cosmic bond of fraternity_ , Trick. Our best friendship is _written in the stars._ The universe wants us to be biffs for liff.”  
  
Patrick rolls his eyes ( _Seriously_ , Pete thinks, _he could win eye-rolling championships, no problem_ ), but Pete doesn’t think he’s imagining the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He grins back.  
  
“Just up here, right?” he asks, flipping his turn signal on. “By the gas station?”  
  
Patrick nods, going for his seatbelt, and Pete pulls over. Patrick opens the door himself this time, but before he can slam it shut Pete leans over, pushing his way into Patrick’s space.  
  
“Hey,” he says, “see you around, yeah?”  
  
Patrick’s mouth does something complicated-looking, before finally settling into a reluctantly amused curve. “Yeah,” he says, and shuts the door.  
  
Pete  _beams_ , because that was definitely a smile he got out of Patrick there, it  _was_ , and pulls away. He gets a hundred yards before he realizes he’s not shivering any more; the car is warm again.  


 

  
  
  
The third, fourth, and fifth times it happens are variations on a theme.  
  
It's always late, and Pete's always heading home to his shabby apartment across town from his parents' house after a night of drinking or dancing or forgetting or looking for a new band or hiding from his old one. Once he runs into Patrick outside a coffee shop (not literally, of course - he's never actually run someone over that wasn't on the soccer field. Or in his way at the grocery store, standing between his shopping cart and the last box of blueberry PopTarts), another night at a different club. One time Trick's walking towards a bus stop and Pete cracks a joke about finding a better-paying street corner, which in turn earns him a glare that could strip paint (if the paint job on this rust bucket hadn't already died and gone to autobody heaven long ago). Always Pete pulls over to open the door for Patrick, one more little joke to lighten the night after he kept it going that second drive home, and always Trick looks at Pete like it's the _very_ least he can do.  
  
The radio's still on the fritz, so by now Pete doesn't even bother with it for long. Instead, he fills the drive with conversation and mindless chatter where he can, and leaves dead air space for Trick to fill if he wants. And slowly, like pulling out weeds (except for how Pete  _wants_ things to come out of the ground, so maybe it's like pulling carrots? Potatoes? Some kind of garden-thing, really), Patrick starts to open up a bit more to Pete, starts to show off a little more of the snark that caught Pete's ear that first night. Conversation is helped along by the fact that the radio never seems to catch a station for more than a minute at a time no matter how many times Pete slams his fist against the dashboard. The heater never blows warm air consistently (no matter how much money Pete pours into his mechanic's pockets), so they resort to talking to distract themselves from the silence and the shivers of the ride home. Sadly, Trick will never be a Chatty Cathy. He doesn't  _need_ to fill the air with noise and flash and distraction the same way Pete does; he can convey more with a pointed look or a certain flavor silence than Pete could in a hundred words. It works for them, letting Pete run on and on, and Patrick keeping his end of the conversation going in eye-rolls and sharp hand gestures.  
  
They're an odd pair of carpool compatriots, because Pete never goes out looking for Patrick ( _deliberately_ ), but the ride out of the city is always better with company. Pete's still never seen Trick's house, still drops him off at the Shell station, still has someone to talk to for half an hour, forty-five minutes, one night a week.  
  
And really, Patrick's kind of perfect for him. Alright, he's kind of stand-offish in the personal bubble department, which is inconvenient in terms of Pete's hugging impulses, but Trick looks like the cuddliest pony to ever canter about, and one day soon they're gonna hug that shit out like whoa. Pete's looking forward to that day with vast anticipation. Trick lets Pete run his mouth until he grinds out the last of the  _angerragehategrief_ in his system, his listening face drawing out the words like poison, and somehow always knows the right thing to say to perk Pete back up. He doesn't mind when Pete switches tracks in the middle of a tangent, follows along with the change until it reaches it's conclusion like that was where the conversation was meant to go. Trick's great for bouncing ideas off of, an excellent sounding board for the lackluster poet in Pete's soul, sloughs off the terrible shit Pete says like chaff and keeps the grains of beauty for Pete to admire. It's like….. Trick takes Pete's words, and makes them make  _sense_ , gives them a greater meaning than the ramble that comes pouring out of Pete when he's tired in the dark.  
  
Sure, there are some topics Patrick won't talk about, topics like his own music or his family or his dating life that will make him clam up until they get to the Shell station ( _Ha!_ Pete thinks,  _Clams are a kind of shellfish. Puns are awesome_ ) and he's out of the car, but Pete's learning. He's finding his way around the maze of Patrick, and it's an adventure he's enjoying. Pete likes it, the challenge, the mystery; chipping away like he's a paleontologist at the rocks that surround Trick, waiting patiently to break through to the bones of Patrick for his prize.  


 

  
  
  
The thing is, Pete never said anything.  
  
Pete never talked about Patrick the first time it happened, because it was a one-off. He didn't mention to his parents about the time he picked up a stranger from the side of the road at one in the morning, because,  _really_ , it was just the one time. He didn't want to hear their lecture about thinking before he acts, and his self-destructive impulses, and focussing on his degree so he can graduate already. So he just left Trick out of his stories entirely, the next time Pete saw his mom.  
  
The time after that, well, it was a complete coincidence, right? No-one was expecting that Pete would see that same stray boy from the side of the road ever again, and even if they had, it still wasn't a planned encounter. What was there to say? "So, tonight I ran into this guy at a club, the same kid that I didn't-kidnap from a bus station last week?" Circling back around to the same lecture he didn't want to hear from his parents, and not much to tell otherwise to his friends - no hook-up to brag about, and no music to share. So Pete kept his silence about Patrick then, too.  
  
After the third, fourth, and fifth times, it almost occurred to Pete to mention Trick to someone, share this awesome thing that's happened to him by chance. But it's still not like they ever plan on meeting, happenstance throwing Patrick in Pete's direction and Pete grabbing tight with both hands. There's no way to show Trick in the daylight, no way to share him and say, "This guy is mine, now. Isn't he neat?"  
  
Pete still hasn't gotten Patrick's number - his phone battery always seems to die by the time of night they cross paths, and even though it has an awesome keyboard, he's gonna need to upgrade models real soon. He should probably be having serious words with his cell phone provider about the lack of network coverage along the outskirts of Chicago, while he's at it - so there's no way to predict the next time Trick will show up, if ever. Pete doesn't like the idea that he might not ever see Patrick again, that each encounter they've had is less likely to recur than rolling snake-eyes, so he deliberately doesn't think about it. Patrick's pretty much perfect for Pete, in all the ways he can't really articulate but feels deep down in his bones. By this point, not mentioning Patrick to anyone seems more like keeping a secret all for himself, a little bubble of spontaneous awesome just for Pete, to hold away the dark.  


 

  
  
  
The sixth time it happens, Pete's hoping for more than just passing acquaintanceship.  
  
He sees Trick loitering outside the same coffee shop as before, pulls up to the curb, does the traditional door'n'dance routine that's become standard protocol for picking up Patrick by the side of the road. Funny, that they  _have_ a routine for this, when these car rides together are so very spurious by nature. And yet, it's been almost two months of these ships-passing-in-the-night, met-by-chance drives, and Pete knows for certain that he's never met anyone like Patrick.  
  
This time as they drive out of the city and into the suburbs, Pete doesn't rant about all the shitty little things that piled up throughout the day, doesn't turn to Patrick and hope he'll commiserate over burnt coffee and bitchy coworkers in an amalgam of terrible fortune. He doesn't restart the I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours conversation they had going last time, when he told Trick about the good stuff, like his love of soccer and his bass and his little sister. This time, Pete opens up about the bad stuff - the summer he went to bootcamp, how sometimes he feels like he can't get out of bed or fall asleep for days on end, the time his therapist put him on meds for depression and anxiety and he thought he was going crazy in the way where you can't come back from it. Patrick nods from the passenger seat ( _Patrick's seat_ a quiet voice says in Pete's head), hums he's listening, and lets Pete get the words out - after all, Pete's always got words. It takes Patrick to make those words have meaning - and then tells Pete about the time he punched a wall until he broke three fingers. It's probably the most revealing conversation the two of them have ever had in his car, and it makes Pete think about what it would be like to keep this connection.  
  
Feeling like he's poured out too much of his soul to chicken out now, Pete makes an abortive move towards Patrick's arm as they pull into the Shell station in Glenview. He doesn't touch, because Trick's body language is screaming for space, but he lets his hand hang in the air between them, suspended animation just like the time they spend together. A bubble of themselves, insulated against the outside world.  
  
"Trick, listen."  
  
Pete trails off, not sure how to phrase  _You're so perfect for me, I think I might have dreamed you up_ without pushing Trick out the door - he's talked to Trick for hours, Patrick  _knows_ Pete can be intense, but this time, for some reason, he doesn't want to come on too strong.  
  
Patrick looks at his hands, folded in his lap, looks at Pete's hand in the space between them, looks at Pete's face, says, "Yeah?"  
  
"I just… I was thinking. I mean, not that I don't love our random midnight rendezvous, ‘cause I do! I mean, sometimes I just want to paint you on the inside of my eyeballs, so I can keep on seeing you all the time. Is that too weird to say? That’s probably too weird to say.  
  
“But… well, wouldn't it be kinda cool to meet up on purpose? Maybe earlier in the evening, so we'd have actual time to do something? I mean, I love our carpool and everything, but I really want to grab a coffee with you or a slice of pizza or something, see you when I'm not too tired or pissed to think straight."  
  
And even as Pete keeps talking, he can see his golden opportunity turning to shit before his eyes. Trick's frozen up, gripping the brim of his hat in clenched fingers, eyes darting from Pete's hand still between them to the door like he's judging his chances to run far and fast.  
  
Pete looks down at the steering wheel, locks down the hurt, and lays the rest of his heart open for Trick to see. Shouldn't be too hard, right? He does it all the time, and for people who matter so much less than Patrick.  
  
"I really like you, man. I really really like you, which you probably noticed because  _eyeballs_ , right? And I'd love to spend some premeditated time together. You're awesome, and it's great when we're together, but not knowing if or when I'll ever see you again is kinda driving me crazy. Crazier. Just…. I want to see you on purpose, more than once every blue moon. Please?"  
  
Pete looks up then, 'cause Patrick's not saying anything and even though he's not the world's loudest talker he never seems to hesitate when he's got  _opinions_ to share, this silent treatment isn't like Trick - and sees that Trick's already rabbitted. His hat's upside down in the footwell, like he dropped it in his haste to escape Pete's feelings, but Patrick is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Funny how Pete was so wrapped up in trying to keep Patrick, and he never heard the car door open.  
  
Guess he  _really_ doesn't have much reason to talk about Patrick now.  
  


 

  
  
  
Time drags and skips when you’re missing someone.  
  
It's been at least a week since the last time Pete's seen Patrick, after he asked for time together that wasn't by accident and Trick froze on him like the motherfucking North Pole, after Patrick left his hat in the car in his haste to bolt. Pete's kept it sitting on the passenger side dashboard every day since, like some talisman to bring Trick back in a better mood, hoping Trick will stumble across his path again if only to reclaim his property. It's a Friday, and Pete's got no classes this afternoon, plans for eating dinner at home and thinking about going into the city for another night of fighting and dancing and scanning empty sidewalks for someone who doesn't want to be found.  
  
Pete's listening to his voicemail while frozen pizza defrosts in the microwave (another missed call from his mother, a confirmed appointment for the dentist next week), flipping idly through the mail. There's junk mail, more junk mail, a phone bill, and an official-looking envelope in the pile. Turns out he ran a red light two months ago ( _Ha!_ he thinks, _Just one? Cops must've been asleep on the job_ ), the night of the last Arma show, the night he first met Patrick. There's a letter on official-looking stationary detailing the date and time of his summons to county court to pay his fine or contest it, and there's a grainy black-and-white photo, time-stamped and dated in that digital-clock font, taken by the traffic camera as he ran the light.  
  
And, standing at the kitchen counter, sunlight streaming through the window, surrounded by the smell of leftover pizza, Pete's heart catches in his chest. He's wearing his usual hoodie in the picture, grayscaled by the camera when it was actually purple, nothing unusual there. Pete can't really read the expression on his face from the angle of the camera, but his mouth is open and his head's turned mid-conversation; it’s probably the part of the evening when he was telling Patrick his theory about scene queens who get into shows by jerking lead singers around by the balls.  
  
Except the hat that should be covering Patrick’s face as he nodded along with Pete’s rant is nowhere to be seen.  
  
According to the photograph in his hands, there was no one in the car with Pete at all.

 

 

  
[the end]

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written at paraka's instigation, and I hope she enjoyed it! (And, y'know, everybody else who read it, as well...)
> 
> Once upon a time, months and months ago, paraka mentioned to Twitter about how she really wanted a story where Patrick wasn't real. I believe her exact words were, _I want to read a fic where Patrick is actually Pete's imaginary friend, someone please tell me this exists! :P_
> 
> And that got me to thinking about unreal things, as you do, which led me to ghosts. And then I remembered the story of Resurrection Mary, Chicago's very own hitchhiking ghost, which was pretty much perfect for my purposes. (Resurrection Mary is reportedly young - only as old as 21 or so, fair haired and fair skinned, with light eyes and a soft-spoken demeanor. She's been known to catch rides from the side of the road and also from night-clubs, only to disappear when her ride arrives at Resurrection Cemetery. I figured, with Patrick's recent foray into blonde hair dye, he'd fit the bill pretty well…. In my head, Patrick was a college kid who went to a club with his friends in the city, drove home, and got killed when the gas station he stopped at got held up. Thus, Pete keeps picking him up in Chicago, and returning him to the place where he died.) And then lalejandra linked me to a vid where Patrick was actually a delusion on the part of Pete, so I tried to throw in a few "Is Patrick a product of Pete's crazy?" moments as well, to throw off the scent - dunno how well that worked out.
> 
> The best part of this whole thing, quite honestly and with no exaggeration, was when quintenttsy came along as a beta-reader. She worked her magic on things like tenses and run-ons (yes, there were _longer_ sentences before she got to this...), and reassured me that, yes, my attempts at foreshadowing were ominous enough. Also, all the dialogue that's worth reading is due to her excellent wordsmithing. I cannot dialogue for shit, so she basically did all the best parts for me. I owe her praises and gratitude to the high heavens for all her help - there was a significant portion of the middle of this fic that used to just be _needs more dialogue here. also the car gets warmer_ , before quintenttsy filled it in with nouns and adverbs. Seriously, quintenttsy probably deserves co-author credit for all the dialogue-wrangling she did for this story. Thank you so much!
> 
> And finally, the title of this fic is taken from the script for Disney's Haunted Mansion, which also contains the warning, **"Beware of hitchhiking ghosts!"**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] A Little Matter I Forgot To Mention (Remain Quietly Seated At All Times)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534673) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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